


Person Of Interest

by Finely Honed (jaqen_hgar)



Series: Imagine Tony & Bucky [13]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Tony Stark, Drinks With Friends, M/M, Sharing secrets, Tiny Tony Kicks Butt, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier Helps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 14:12:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3532295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqen_hgar/pseuds/Finely%20Honed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small">Prompt: Winter Solider saves young Tony's life.( Kidnapping, assassination attempt, creepy business man? ) And maybe reactions after CAWS when that's remembered/brought to light?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>He’s younger than everyone around him, smaller, too. He keeps his head down, overstuffed backpack dwarfing his small frame as he leaves the campus. Dark, messy brown hair, not quite hiding the shiner on his left eye, movements sharp, agitated; cigarette to mouth, cloud of smoke, and as soon as one is finished another is lit.</p><p>From across the campus, through the eyes of his rifle scope, the soldier shares a strange moment of intimacy with this small figure as he turns, eyes scanning the distance, as if feeling himself watched. His eyes are brown, and sad, and angry, and determined. He seems very alone in the crowd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Person Of Interest

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted over on [imaginetonyandbucky.tumblr.com](http://imaginetonyandbucky.tumblr.com/). Be sure to stop on over and also enjoy the amazing contributions of [Potrix](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/pseuds/Potrix), [27dragons](http://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons), [InnerCinema](http://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerCinema), and [kamaete](http://kamaete.tumblr.com/)!

He’s younger than everyone around him, smaller, too. He keeps his head down, overstuffed backpack dwarfing his small frame as he leaves the campus. Dark, messy brown hair, not quite hiding the shiner on his left eye, movements sharp, agitated; cigarette to mouth, cloud of smoke, and as soon as one is finished another is lit.

From across the campus, through the scope of his rifle, the soldier shares a strange moment of intimacy with this small figure as he turns, eyes scanning the distance, as if feeling himself watched. His eyes are brown, and sad, and angry, and determined. He seems very alone in the crowd. 

This young man is not the intended target, but from the moment he exited the dormitory, he had drawn the soldier’s attention—he’s so much smaller than the other students, and this has struck an uncomfortable chord somewhere inside.

The soldier follows. Doing so feels dangerous in a way nothing has before, this choice one he cannot defend if challenged. The only reason for following— because he wished to—is terrifying to contemplate.

His new target moves through the city with purpose using public transportation, and by the time he arrives in a bad part of town it is dark outside, the boy has exhausted two packs of cigarettes, and bitten his nails to the quick.

He is beautiful in the way only wounded things can be, and the one watching has a deep appreciation for the art of wounding. To kill. To hurt. To please himself, or others. To feel.

The figure ducks into an alley, begins digging through his backpack, pulling out gloves, and a dark, hooded jacket. He retrieves other items, shiny metal, stuffs them into his pockets, then hides his backpack behind the dumpster.

Quickly, he crosses the street, goes two blocks up, and the soldier laughs to himself to see the binoculars come out. He is checking exits, entrances, making notes in his head, preparing an infiltration. Interesting.

Once it is much later, the small figure crosses to the building in question, shimmies up a drainpipe, risks a leap and just manages to grasp the fire escape, and make his way up, and up, and up.

A window slid open, the figure slips inside, the soldier waits, watches.

Below, a car pulls up, several large men emerge, laughing to themselves, and the soldier understands immediately that they are going to find his person of interest. He doubts they will be happy to find him there.

Up they go, and the soldier hesitates. Another choice presenting itself to him. He hasn’t been given authorization to engage in combat, does not fully comprehend what is taking place, but cannot ignore the unfamiliar fluttering in his chest.

"Help him," it seems to say. He sees the lights go on and hears a cry from inside, and acts.

"Who sent you?"

"I sent myself," the small figure answers, talking as if they are incredibly stupid.

"Who the hell is this kid?" one of the goons says, face scrunched up. They’ve failed to notice the soldier has let himself in, is watching from the dark. "He looks familiar."

One of the men grabs hold of the figure, then recoils in shock and pain when something flashes in his eyes, sends him stumbling back. A quick movement and a collapsible baton whizzes through the air, connecting with the man’s shin, and the scream is delightful.

But quick as the boy is, they have height, and weight, and one of them catches him across the jaw with a fist, sends him to the ground, while the other pulls a pistol.

The soldier does not wait. He enters now, and these screams are different. He mustn’t use his own weapons, as they count his bullets, so he helps one thug shoot another, then beats him down viciously with his own pistol, grinning to himself at the wet crunch as the man’s nose breaks.

"Who the hell are you?"

This is the first man, the one his young friend had incapacitated. The soldier snarls, and quiets him with a knee to the jaw.

"No, wait," the young man cries, as the soldier prepares to put a bullet in this man’s face.

The soldier stops, for he has been trained to follow orders. There is fear in the brown eyes watching him, panic, and confusion, but also a steeliness. It isn’t compassion that has caused him to intervene.

"Where did you put them?"

"What?" The man looks terrified. He is bleeding from his mouth, and staring at his dead friends.

"The photos you took, dickwad. Your little blackmail photos? Where are they?"

Blinking rapidly, the man swallows his mouthful of blood. “You’re the Stark kid!”

The soldier knows this name, does not know how or why, and a cold, sick feeling takes him by surprise.

"Where are they?"

"Jesus, kid, we were just gonna make a quick buck," the man stammers. "Jesus."

And they do not know each other, but this small, dark haired enigma turns to him—to a man who has appeared from the shadows and violently ended lives in front of him with no provocation—and says, “Make him tell me.”

His eyes are wild. His mouth is twisted into something ugly. Someone has hurt him recently, the soldier understands, and it has left him fearless in a way that it should not have.

The soldier nods, takes the man’s wrist, holds tight, breaks a finger, moves to grab the one next to it, and pauses. “Tell him what he wants to know.”

"Okay, okay, fuck, the camera, the photos, it’s all in the car downstairs."

The soldier lifts him off the ground. “Show him.”

Down they go, and there are sirens in the distance. The man is wide eyed and smells of piss and fear. He opens the trunk, and inside is what was promised. Stark goes through everything, face twisting into a vicious snarl, gathers up what he needs.

He raises his head, meets the soldier’s eyes, and there is no fear. He nods. “Are there others?” The man doesn’t answer Stark’s question, and the soldier breaks another finger.

"No, God, fuck, we didn’t have time!"

"Do you believe him?" The soldier looks into the man, sees he is broken, and nods. "Good. Thanks."

For no reason that the soldier can comprehend, Stark rushes toward him, has to stand on his tip toes to do so, but presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

This done, he takes off running, and as he goes, the soldier puts a bullet in the man’s brain, shoves him into the trunk, and heads off into the darkness after Stark.

By the time he returns to the alley, Stark is gone. He must take a circuitous route home, because despite searching, the soldier cannot find him, and he is quite good at finding people.

An hour later, and he is called in, and cannot account for his missing time. They punish him, put him away again, but the only thing he regrets is that he will forget Stark’s face, forget the feeling of chapped lips against his mouth, and the _choices_ he has made this night.

+

Bucky Barnes has trouble with his memories. There are days he does not recognize Steve, and there are days when he remembers things in vivid detail, and wishes he had no memory whatsoever.

The first time they meet, he does not understand the widening of Stark’s eyes, the obvious signs of recognition and agitation. He assumes Stark has read the file, knows he has Howard and Maria Stark’s blood on his hands, and so Bucky hides from him, choking on shame and disgust.

It takes a great deal of time before he and Stark find themselves in the same room together, and when it finally happens oddly enough they are alone.

"You don’t remember me," Tony says, and he sounds equal parts disappointed and relieved. The ice in his drink makes a lovely tinkling sound as the cubes swirl and come into contact with the sides of the glass.

Bucky licks his lips, and runs a hand over his face. Tony looks small standing at the windows, looking out on New York as if he doesn’t recognize it, the semi-darkness of the room making him seem an illusion.

And suddenly, he  _does_ remember, and cannot breathe. “I followed you!”

Tony’s head whips around, his eyes wide. “Was HYDRA watching me?”

Bucky shakes his head, then shrugs. “I don’t know. Probably. I was supposed to be watching another student.”

Tony steps away from the windows, and raises his glass. “Want a drink?”

Following an impulse, he takes Tony’s, sips and sighs at the burn. Stark watches with hungry, conflicted eyes, then laughs. He laughs with his entire body, always does if the laugh is genuine. Bucky knows this, because he has been watching him from a distance for quite some time now. It’s different up close. Hearing the laugh, knowing it is for him.

Bucky gives him a laugh of his own, much more brittle. “You were so small. I think… Steve was small. Once. And… so, I think that’s why I followed.”

Inexplicably, Tony takes his hand, and pulls him over to the bar, where they sit shoulder to shoulder, and he pours another drink for them to share. “You probably saved my life.”

"Probably?"

Tony shrugs. “They would have figured out who I was. Slippery slope between blackmail and kidnapping, and it’s easier to get your ransom paid when you’ve got someone living to trade for the cash.” He takes a sip, hands Bucky the glass. “But maybe not. Maybe they just shoot me, and that’s that.”

Bucky nods, and drinks, and studies Tony’s profile. Unsure of why he feels he has any right to do so, he touches Tony’s fingers. “You stopped biting your nails.”

Tony grins at him, and it is dangerous and unsteady, and somewhere in his eyes Bucky sees that ruthless boy striking back at those who dared take from him.

"Somebody hurt you. Someone else tried to use it against you."

Tony flinches, and shrugs. “Yup. And a lot of different somebodies hurt you. There’s plenty of hurt to go around in this place. No point in dwelling on it.”

When Tony looks at him again, his eyes are warmer, and Bucky finds that he likes the lines at the corners, likes all the ways he has changed since that night, a striking, wounded boy grown into a beautiful, wounded man.

"Did I…" and there is concern there in Tony’s voice. This is a man who has been used, does not wish to learn he has inadvertently used another.

"No. It was a choice." He drinks. "My choice," he clarifies, because the distinction is important. "And I had so few."

"Glad you used one on me," Tony says, and his lips aren’t chapped this time when he kisses the corner of Bucky’s mouth. "Thanks."

He moves as if to leave, and Bucky reaches, takes his wrist between metal fingers, is surprised when Tony twists in his grip, holds his hand instead. With his other hand, Bucky raises the glass. “To secrets,” he toasts.

Tony licks his lips, accepts the glass, and empties it before sitting back down, his thigh warm where it presses against Bucky’s own.

When he turns and smiles, it’s different than all the others Bucky has seen before, a match for the heat and burn of the scotch.

"What’s one more between friends?"


End file.
